


Strangers on a winter's night

by domysticated



Category: Wallflower Series - Lisa Kleypas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domysticated/pseuds/domysticated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evie and Sebastian are more alike than they thought. Their secrets are dark and painful, condemning them to a prison of loneliness and a life of escaping their past.</p><p>But on this winter's night they find each other, unexpectedly and unconditionally. </p><p>Some things are meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers on a winter's night

**Author's Note:**

> \---- please note... this is A/U and a bit darker than the original. Also unbetaed and rushed, but I couldn't get these two out of my head! ----

Sitting at her dressing table, Evie listened to the sound of the rain. She was still sitting in the exact same position her maid had left her, almost an hour ago, after preparing her bed. She could see her own face in the mirror, reflected in the dim candlelight... The sadness, the stillness, the loneliness in her eyes. She despised the pale, frightened girl staring back at her, and she cursed herself for indulging in this weakness, this introspection that she knew, from bitter experience, would bring her absolutely nowhere but in a dark, silent place.

She'd heard the frontdoor slam a while back. Her husband had finally come home, hours after the disastrous ball they attended together had ended, hours after he’d left her without a word of explanation. He had looked pained, his eyes glacial behind a mask of carefully constructed boredom. He had avoided looking at her as he’d bid her good night. It had hurt more than a physical blow. 

She didn't have a way of finding out where he had been, and she blamed herself for wanting to know. Married only a few weeks, and she could not fault him for sticking to his side of the bargain.

"You'll have all my money, all my inheritance... All yours. I won’t ask anything of you... You won’t have to change your ways. Only... Protect me. Shield me from my family."

Of course, these words had come out painfully. Laboriously... Drawn out by her awful stutter and the tremor in her voice and limbs. She would never forget the terror of that night, the desperation that had pushed her to do the most reckless, scandalous thing of all. If he had refused her… if he had sent her away… she was sure she would have found a way to end her own life. But he had not sent her away. He had looked at her through those impossibly beautiful eyes, the blue so deep and impenetrable, had laughed nonchalantly and said “Well, damn me to hell. And you with me.”

After their dreadful trip to Scotland, the hurried wedding, the hasty, silent consummation of their vows in a cold, dark inn room… they had come back to London and settled quickly in a routine of indifference and mutual avoidance. Her father lingered on, and she visited him daily, but there was nothing to be done for him, unconscious and delirious as he was. It may be days, or weeks, or months, the doctor had said. And Evie was sure that she had seen reproach in St Vincent’s eyes, the suspicion he had been cheated. He had reacted by immersing himself in understanding the way the club worked, pacing like a caged tiger, waiting to punce till the old man was gone and he could do whatever he wanted with the place. Sell it, Evie thought. Or… she couldn’t dare. She had, once again, no way of knowing. 

But he had done his duty by her - he’d claimed her as his wife and ruthlessly dismissed her uncles when they had come to collect her, frightening them off with his cold, violent words and the confidence of his social superiority. He had insisted she visits the most sought after modistes in town to get beautifully tailored gowns in colours that, finally, suited her fiery complexion and generous figure; he had made sure she found beautiful jewels in her room before functions and balls. 

She didn’t fool herself into thinking this was kindness. She was, after all, Lady st Vincent now and no matter how little he cared for her, it would reflect badly on him if she was seen to be unadorned and ill-dressed. Wives were expected to be neglected, but never unprovided for. God knows the gossip and malicious twitterings followed her everywhere as it was. She dreaded going out into society, dreaded submitting to the cruel stare and open mocking of her peers. 

But sometimes she caught him observing her at supper, his blue eyes inscrutable as he seemed to look all the way beneath her skin and into the depths of her shivering, frightened soul. He had done that tonight, at the house of Lord and Lady Pembroke, across the table as she tried, without success, to sustain a conversation with her neighbour. When the gentleman had finally turned away, having decided that there was no point in trying, she had found herself started at, and for a moment she imagined she saw a flash of protectice sympathy in his face. But how would a man as accomplished and social as St Vincent know of her torture? She was sure he had been judging her, hating her for her incapacity of performing even the more basic of social tasks. 

Evie reflected with sadness that she had barely spoken more than ten sentences to her husband since they had started living together in his beautiful Mayfair house. He went out almost every night, came back God knows when, and she had little doubt he was still visiting the same houses of sin and pleasure he had always spent his time and money in.

And why shouldn’t he, she told herself. He was beautiful in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. Blond and blue eyed, with features so fine as to be almost hypnotic. Impeccable manners, a with sharp as a razor, tall and lean without being bulky... Evie had often heard him described as a fallen angel. His reputation was abysmal. It was said he had slept with every matron in the ton, compromised countless maidens, and, although this more salacious gossip hadn’t reached her sheltered ears, many whispered he did not limit his sexual interest to women alone. He drank and gambled to excess, he went weeks without sleeping... He seemed intent in burning his youth prematurely. At the age of 30, if Evie hadnt appeared with her desperate offer of financial salvation, he had been staring in the face of financial ruin. 

Evie thought sadly that she had never seen him smile, and thought she probably never would. She had steeled herself for a life of loneliness and desolation, but it didn't make it any easier to live this life. She ran her hands over her arms, shivering in the chilling night air. At least she was safe here. St Vincent ignored her, but that was better than the vicious abuse she’d grown up with. She should not let herself forget this. Being maudlin was not a luxury that was afforded to her. 

She got up, her limbs stiff with the prolonged immobility, and resolved to go to sleep. But just as she was slipping her robe off, she heard a crashing noise coming from downstairs. God knows what passed through her mind - surely she should have ignored it, leaving it to the servants to investigate - but she found herself opening the door and tiptoeing quietly downstairs.

The house was dark save for a sliver of light coming from the library. She followed it and, in an act of irrational spontaneity, pushed it opened.

"Well well well... If it isn’t my wife." 

St Vincent lay slumped on a rich velvet sofa by the fire, his shirt half undone, his long legs stretched before him. His curly hair fell into his face but she could make out the dark shadows under his eyes, the tired, weary set of his brows.

His words were thick and slurred.

"My lady," he raised his glass a in salutation.

"M-m-my lord" Evie answered, shocked. “I aaa...ppologise ff for…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence.

"Couldn't sleep, my lady? Looking for company? Well, feel free to itt with me. Don't worry. I wont bite. Well I would, but i'm probably too drunk"

Evie hesitated. She should head back upstairs, she knew, but suddenly the idea of retreating to her cold, dark room felt too oppressive to consider. St Vincent looked so tired and defeated, that his normal predatory aura was absent. Strangely, she thought, it was the first time she wasn’t threatened by him.  
She took a few steps and sat quietly next to st Vincent, acutely aware of her nightclothes and her loosely braided hair. She was sure her husband was finding her wanting and was mocking he inwardly, berating her for her lack of propriety. 

Instead, he poured a glass of amber liquid and offered it to her. She shook her head but he only laughed at her refusal. 

"I wouldn't refuse the brandy if i were you. Come tomorrow you will need it. We are expecting the much dreaded visit of the duke of Kingston. Also known as my father."

Evie took the glass in her hands, hesitantly,

"Y y yyou dddont wissh to to to see him ,my L-lord?"

"No. Most definitely not. Cold hearted, selfish, horrible creature."

He stared at her intently, and she felt herself blush fiercely. She took a large, burning gulp of brandy to distract herself from the intensity of his gaze,

"He’s coming to make your acquaintance, you know. To take the measure of the woman who saved us all from ruin." 

He barked a bitter, clipped laugh.

"He won’t be kind to you. In fact he will almost certainly be obnoxious. And there will be nothing I can do to spare you."

Evie thought she could see a flash of tenderness in his eyes, but brushed the thought away quickly. He pities you, she told herself, he thinks you’ll fold into nothingness in front of the mean old duke.

"I… I;m used to b b bbeing shown ll l llittle kindness, my Llord," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I’m sure anything the duke says or does cannot be a a as bb b bbad as what my family put me through." She drank the rest of the glass, and felt her head spin with the strength of the liquor, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading in her chest and her head. She was sure she was burning crimson by now.

"Your family…” He murmured, shifting his body so he could face her. They were so close their knees were touching. Evie trembled wit their proximity. "Those mean, pathetic, despicable bastards."

Evie gasped with shock of hearing such crass, foul language. 

St Vincent laughed.

"You are shocked, child? But that is what they are! Are they not?" 

He took her hands in his and kneeled in front of her. She could not believe his gestures, the intimacy he was displaying. 

"Did they not ill-treat you?" She nodded, avoiding his eyes.

"Did they not call you names?"  
Another nod, as the flood of memories came in. Good-for-nothing. Commoner. Ginger wastrel. Dim-witted. You belong in the gutter, like your father. 

"Did they not,” he traced the edge of her laced nightgown with a finger. “Made you wear horrible clothes...". 

She swallowed thickly and attempted a smile. 

"Starve you..." 

The memory of her forced fastings, her aunt’s vicious words insulting, berating her figure, made her shiver. 

St Vincent put a gentle finger to her lips and caressed them lightly, almost a feather. 

 

His arm slid over her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"Did they not hit you?", he murmured, and finally, voicing a suspicion he’d harboured for a long time, "did your uncle not dishonour you?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide, horrified. How did he know? Shame could have incinerated her on the spot. She started shaking her head frantically but he brought his hand to her face, his touch infinitely gentle yet firm. There was nothing but concern in his eyes, an understanding that pierced her soul and her heart, a tenderness so acute it felt like honey. 

"Did he not, Evie, dear girl?". She closed her eyes, a sob escaping her lips the only admission. 

St Vincents lips on her forehead were gentle, reassuring.

“Then I should say bastard is quite a kind word to use, is it not?” He whispered softly, his tone delicately ironic. 

She couldn't help a small, relieved nod. It was as if he’d undressed her completely, down to the darkest part of her soul, and washed her anew. 

“Then say it,” he chided. “Come on.”

"Bbb bbbastards," she whispered.

“Louder, Evangeline. Louder.” He took her in his arms, pulled her on his lap and held her firmly.

“B bastards,” a hesitant crescendo

“Come on! You can do better than that! Come on, as if they could hear you!”

“Bastards!” she finally shouted. “Bastards!”, with mo stammer, no hesitation.

She collapsed on his chest, shaking with the effort and the daring, relishing the freeing, cleansing sensation. Unburdened. 

“Yes, yes, my girl, bastards. But you are free of them now.” He held her firmly, his body warm, his skin smelling of brandy and something sweet, decadent. He kissed her hair with abandon, murmuring words she couldn’t make out. 

They stayed in this surprising, strong embrace for a long time, till their breathing had evened out and synchronised. 

St Vincent spoke lowly, his voice gravelly and low. 

“My father.. The duke.” He stopped for a long time. He took Evie’s hand in his, kissed her palm with infinite devotion. “He beat me, too. As a child. Often. It was the only time he derived pleasure from my presence.” 

She could not stop herself from kissing his throat, his jaw, his eyes. Never had he looked more beautiful to her than now, vulnerable and insecure, his hands trembling, his grip on her unforgiving. 

“I longed to please him, any way I could.”

That was all Sebastian would ever admit to anyone on this topic. 

He felt Evie stiffen against him, and he reflectively pulled her closer to him. Her soft, small body felt like an anchor in a storm.

"Then I’d say the duke is a bastard too, my Lord," she said looking at him with wide, brave eyes.

He smiled, his head heavy with alcohol but his heart clear, his soul unencumbered, perhaps for the first time in his life.

"Sebastian," he said. "I want to hear you say my name."

Evie swallowed thickly. It was a test, she was sure. Or perhaps a bridge, that would crumble before her if not used. She prayed her words would come clearly, pushed her tongue towards her teeth to get the sound out... 

"Ssss..." she panicked but he held her gaze, and she saw it then, a thirst, a loneliness that she knew so well, a terror that she lived with every day… to be unloved, unlovable, unsalvageable.

She was his bridge, not the other way round. 

"Sebastian," she whispered sweetly, and his lips were on hers, hungry and hard and impatient.

"Sebastian," she vibrated against his mouth, bold and brave now, drunk with power and lust.

"Evie," he answered, feverishly, "beautiful. Reckless, innocent girl. God forgive me."

She melted in his arms, lost herself in his hungry kisses and impatient, probing hands. The brandy had made her loose, free. She was lightheaded with longing, crazy with the need to connect to him, this beautiful, intimidating man whose house and name she now shared. She wanted to share everything with him.

He was not gentle with her, for he didn't know how, but he was careful, showing her a pleasure she couldn't even comprehend. He lavished her with sweet, obscene words, claiming her blush made him crazy, her freckles incoherent, her body a believer.

“My wife,” he laughed, “when did you become so beautiful? Why did I not know it? Where have you been hiding and how did you come to me? Who sent you? My angel,” he rambled, “my saviour, let me in, let me in, I won’t hurt you.”

Later, she fell asleep in his arms, sated and spent. Self disgust overcame him for a moment... For he'd promised he wouldn't soil her with his scandalous appetite. But look at her, he thought. And look at me, we're only two desperate, damaged souls. He had been her last hope; she was his first.

He took her up the stairs in his arms and into his bed, the first time he had ever shared it with anyone. She opened her eyes when he slid next to her.

"Sebastian,” she whispered, “my Lord, am I dreaming? Will you be gone in the morning, must I be alone again?”

“Sleep, little wife, sleep,” he murmured, his heart welling with love and devotion. "Never again.”


End file.
